Last Action Girlfriend
by Runt Thunderbelch
Summary: The superhot daughter of Last Action Hero's Jack Slater wants two things: me and tens of millions of dollars in buried treasure  not necessarily in that order .
1. Whitney

Last Action Girlfriend

By

Runt Thunderbelch

Dedicated to: Brigette Wilson,

the actress who played Whitney Slater.

Introduction:

I was absolutely bowled over by Ms Wilson's appearance in Last Action Hero. She was electrifying during her too few minutes onscreen, not only by being jaw-droppingly gorgeous but also by doing her own stunts, in which she kicked major butt.

This Fanfic story is about how our first date turned into a search of tens of millions of dollars in buried gold and gems . . . with bad guys trying to kill us all along the way.

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Last Action Hero.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Whitney

Chapter 2: Coffee with All of Its Ramifications

Chapter 3: Obituary

Chapter 4: Car Chase

Chapter 5: Wolfe Burgers

Chapter 6: Ambush in the Huntington Library

Chapter 7: Shootout in the Sculpture Garden

Chapter 8: The Cursed Treasure of Cahuenga Pass

Chapter 9: Treasure Map

Chapter 10: The House on Los Tilos Road

Chapter 11: Land of Dreams

Chapter 1: Whitney

Yeah, I broke the arm of my martial arts instructor. This was bad news, and it was good news.

The bad news was that now the other kids in class thought I was psychotically dangerous, and they wouldn't have anything to do with me. (But I swear, it was an accident!) The worse news was that the university dean thought I might be totally deranged and was making me undergo psychological evaluation. (It was a flippin' accident!) The worse news of all was that, without an instructor, I would be left one unit short and wouldn't graduate in June. (It wasn't my fault!)

The good news was Whitney Slater.

Okay, I need to first point out that I do hate beautiful girls. I hate 'em, hate 'em, hate 'em! They are vain, self-centered, capricious, selfish, egocentrical, philandering, fickle and extremely high maintenance. On the other hand, I adore ugly girls. They know they can't compete with their looks and so they develop their personalities. They are loud, crazy, attentive, loving and most of all wonderfully unpredictable. The only thing better than having one ugly girlfriend is having more than one ugly girlfriend.

Then came the day that Whitney Slater showed up, standing beside our short, fat, bald athletic director. No one could deny that Whitney was drop-dead gorgeous. You know the type: blond hair, soft brown eyes, face by Botticelli, baby-pink lip-glossed lips, a pert athletic body, and dressed in a white T-shirt with regulation blue-and-gold shorty shorts and pink tennis shoes. Her breath-taking boobs bulged her T-shirt out all the way to Pacoima.

Insane lust seized my body and soul. If I hadn't been wearing an athletic cup, I would have embarrassed myself.

"I'm glad I caught you people before you left for your next classes," our athletic director was saying, "but I've managed to find you a replacement martial arts instructor. May I introduce Whitney Slater?"

She glanced at the clock on the wall. "I'm sorry it's so late in the day, but I just wanted a chance to meet you and have you meet me. Is there a Theodore Gifford here?"

Uh oh. My hand reluctantly trickled upwards.

"Fine. Stay after class, will you Mr. Gifford? The rest of you can hit the showers. See you at the next class."

"You think you're some kind of super-tough guy, don't you Mr. Gifford!" She was pink and soft and sugar and spice, and she was scaring the bejeezus out of me.

"It was an accident, I swear! I didn't mean to break anyone's arm!"

"You're saying you broke your martial arts instructor's arm without even trying?"

My mouth opened, but my mind slammed an emergency shut down on my vocal cords. Either way I answered that, I was going to be in trouble.

"Do you think you can take me?" she snarled.

"I don't want to fight you!"

"Tough!" she side-kicked my belly.

I stumbled backwards onto the mat, let myself do a backwards somersault, bounced back up onto may feet and, with my left foot, swung a reverse roundhouse at the side of her face as she came charging after me. She ducked, and balancing on one foot, swung the other over her head and came down on the back of my skull. Then she reverse-roundhouse kicked me. But I was already cartwheeling when the blow landed, and I revolved over and dropped into the mantis stance.

Her charge feinted left, came right, then she dropped and her leg swept me off my feet. I hit the mat, rolling away, and leapt back up to my feet.

She threw a jab. I dodged, caught her, and kissed her.

Whitney hissed in anger, jerked away, spun and elbowed me in the ribs. That twisted me around her, and I kissed her again.

She squealed and gasped, "What are you doing?"

"Kissing you!"

She kicked me in the athletic cup. "Stop it!"

I caught her ankle and lifted it up even higher. She went with the force by turning a back flip, landed catlike on her feet, and threw a punch at my belly. I flung her on passed me, pounced on her as she stumbled, and kissed her again as we fell to the mat."

"Dammit, I'm an instructor! Don't you dare kiss me!"

I kissed her again.

She slammed her forearm into my throat.

I rolled away, gagging, tears streaming from my eyes. Stumbled back up to my feet, I backed away.

She charged in, throwing blows. I managed to block them as I continued to back and tried to catch my breath.

One of her feet came swinging at the side of my head. I caught it, and lifted it high. Her other foot came off the ground, and she used the opportunity to slam her foot into my crotch. I purposely collapsed on top of her, wrapping my arms around her curled up body, holding her in a tight ball. I sought out her lips and kissed her again.

"I don't want you kissing me!"

"Oh." I released her, and sat back on my haunches, motionless.

"Just like that?" she asked. "The fight's over?"

"You don't want me kissing you."

"What have I been saying for the past five minutes?"

"You said I shouldn't kiss you. You said that I dare not kiss you. But you never said you didn't _want_ me to kiss you. Not until just now." I shrugged helplessly.

"And so?"

"If you want me to kiss you, then nothing on Earth can stop me, not the fact that you're my instructor, not anything. But if you don't want me to kiss you then . . ." I shrugged again. After a moment, I got up and headed off for the showers.

There was puzzlement and distain in her voice, "Did I hurt your _feelings_?"

I turned around but kept walking backwards. "Yeah."

"Sorry. I didn't know you were so damned sensitive."

I turned back around and kept heading for the showers. I turned around and came back towards her, then turned and headed for the showers, and then turned and came back. "You want to go for coffee?"


	2. Coffee with All of Its Ramifications

Chapter 2: Coffee with All of Its Ramifications

"I'm curious," Whitney said as we sat around one of those oh-too-small-but-way-too-high tables. I had my usual Frappuccino while she sipped on a chocolaty Chantico. "Why did you keep kissing me?"

When I looked at her, I heard music. More specifically, I heard one of those bouncy 1950's novelty tunes, with back-up singers singing something like "boop-boop-de-beep-de-bop-de-boop," while the lead sang of wiggles, and giggles and wriggles.

She continued "It wasn't some kind of conquest thing, was it? Boy conquers teacher?"

"Oh no," I blurted. "You're not even my type. You're 180 degrees from being my type. You're the least my-type of any girl on this planet. So don't ask me why I took one look at you and fell head over heels."

Her nose crinkled. "So, it's just a 'looks' thing?"

Oh shit! Wrong answer, wrong answer, wrong answer! Quick, think of a lie! "Well that, AND the fact that you fight like a whirlwind of kicks, punches and jabs. Where did you ever learn to fight like that?"

She gave a happy shrug. "My dad taught me."

Good, good, good. Don't talk about me because, right then, I was being really, really shallow. Talk about anything but me. "Tell me more about your dad."

"You haven't figured it out?"

"Uh . . . I guess not."

"My dad's Jack Slater."

My heart jumped up into my throat. Did she mean the pick-up-any-newspaper-and-read-the-headline-about-Jack-Slater Jack Slater? "Er, you mean Detective Jack Slater?"

"Uh huh." Whitney must have seen me blanche because she asked, "So, you still want to go out with me?"

"This dad of yours, is he very protective of you?"

"Oh yeah."

"How does he feel about guys kissing you?"

"He's against it." Then she laughed. "Don't worry though. I'm for it. I'm all for it." She leaned across and kissed me.

There's never an athletic cup around when you need one.


	3. Obituary

Chapter 3: Obituary

"Morning Ted," Whitney said as she announced her presence with a kiss behind my ear. I'd been concentrating so hard on the obituary column, I didn't see her come into the restaurant.

"Whitney," I babbled. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry!"

"Sorry for what?" She popped down across from me in the booth. Her brown eyes were happy and chipper.

"Oh my god, you don't know." I began to tremble. I didn't want to be the one to have to tell her. "Whitney. Whitney."

"Ted, you're starting to scare me." She sounded more annoyed than scared.

"It's all over the papers. Your," I caught my breath, "your father is dead."

"Oh, is that all?" She picked up a menu and flipped to the breakfast page.

I blinked, looked again at the obituaries, and then up into the serene face of the woman I loved. "Whitney? Did you hear what I just told you?"

"Yeah, my dad's obituary is in the paper again. Don't worry about it. Have you had the Belgium waffles here? Are they real Belgium waffles or those lousy American knock-offs?"

"'Again?'"

"Yeah. I'd swear his obituary is in the newspapers more often than the weather report."

"So, he's not dead?"

"Psst." She leaned over the table to whisper to me, "He's Jack Slater, remember? -Hey, they have fresh-squeezed orange juice!"

At that moment, my brain was like a Great Dane on ice. It may have been running in four different directions at once, but it was going absolutely nowhere. Thoughts ran around in random directions, bumped into each other, and fell on their asses.

Whitney asked, "So what are you having?"

I gulped. If I'd have had the courage of a tit mouse, I'd have said sometime like, _I'll have you, you delectable wench! And in every conceivable way too I might add!_ But in a burst of cowardess, I pretended to study my menu while my eyes really feasted on her. Her blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail. Her blouse was sea green and cut very low. She had a golden locket of some grizzly Aztec goddess nestling right where my nose longed to be.

Our plan was to meet for a late breakfast here in Eagle Rock and then to drive over to the Huntington Library and Gardens. I was looking forward to the Japanese Gardens on the west end of the Huntington where hidden paths wandering among high foliage. In an hour or so from now, one of us was going to get herself grabbed.

Then everything went to crap. I happened to glance over tat the door just as three tough-looking men pulled out automatic weapons. Their eyes were fixed on us and were filled with murderous intent.

"DUCK!"

I dove under the table and pulled Whitney down on top of me. Gunfire roared, wood chips flew, furniture padding was ripped into clouds, and the condiments above us erupted into multicolored geysers.

My face was crammed under Whitney's smooth thighs. She was wearing a white micro-miniskirt, and her legs smelled of almond lotion. I thought of raising my gaze to see if I could catch a glimpse of Heaven, but before I could . . .

"Give me my purse!"

I shoveled her purse to her. She pulled out a grenade and threw it. I could hear the men shouting warnings and running for their lives.

"Come on!" shouted Whitney, and she scrambled out from underneath the table (hey, gold panties) and took out after the fleeing felons.

I ran after her.

At the door, Whitney bent over and scooped up the grenade.

"Whitney! What are you doing?"

"It's made out of wood!" she shouted back at me as she burst out the door. "It works better than mace and has a longer range."

The three guys had jumped into a black SUV and were roaring out of the parking lot. One of them fired a burst of bullets. They missed us but took out a couple of the restaurant's big picture windows.

"Hurry up!" She ran to her pick-up truck, which was just slightly larger than the state of Rhode Island. She climbed in and reached over to unlock and open the passenger door for me. I climbed up and up and up, and got into the seat beside her.

The engine was already rumbling.

"Take this!" she tossed me a silver automatic. "When we get close enough, plug 'em!"

She jammed the truck into gear and stomped the accelerator, squealing her tires, and leaving tracks of burnt rubber.

"Er, this is a .22."

Whitney took her eyes off the road for a second to give me a glare. "So?"

"Those are three professional assassins, armed with machine guns. We have one .22-caliber pistol, and it's in the hands of a guy with no training whatsoever. So why are we chasing them?"

She laughed. "Because my darling Ted, we are the good guys, they are the bad guys, and they know they're all gonna die!"

"They do, huh?"

"Oh yeah! You can bet your life on it!"

"I, uh, sorta am."


	4. Car Chase

Chapter 4: Car Chase

The black SUV was racing east on Colorado Boulevard, heading towards Pasadena. Whitney was gaining on them, driving like a bat out of hell.

"I need music!" she snapped. "Turn on the radio!"

I pushed the button, and the cab was filled with the soothing sounds of Vivaldi's "Four Seasons."

"Something with a little more oomph, if you please?"

Why blame me; it was _her_ radio. I pushed another button. Dead air hung for a few seconds. Then with a blare of trumpets and in fast 2/4 time, out galloped the finalé of Rossini's _William Tell Overture_!

"All right!" Whitney exalted. "Now you're talkin'! Hi yo, Silver!" Her foot smashed the accelerator, and we shot forward like we were on the Superman roller coaster at Magic Mountain.

The SUV hung a sharp right down a residential side street, and a sparkly thing flew out of the passenger window.

"Dynamite!" I shrieked.

"Shoot them!" Whitney replied, cutting the corner by jumping the curb, taking out a small fence, sideswiping a parked car, and bouncing back down into the side street as the dynamite exploded harmlessly back in the intersection. Then she ricocheted off a van parked on the far side of the street, balanced her pickup on two wheels for a moment, landed hard back on all four tires, and wove back and forth across the side street to distract the gunfire now coming for the SUV. "Shoot them!"

I felt like a James Bond vodka martini, shaken not stirred. She sideswiped a Chevy, ripping away our side mirror on my side as well as a good chunk of the Chevy.

"Shoot them? How?" I gasped. Could I even get my arm out the window without it being torn off?

The SUV made a hard left onto Yosemite. Dynamite sticks flew out of each side.

"Hang on, Ted!"

She shot through the intersection. The dynamite went off behind us, but she couldn't hold the corner. Whitney's pickup leapt up onto lawns, running down a newly planted tree, a plaster-of-Paris Venus de Milo and a grinning satyr. A wood railing fence disintegrated, a cat ran for its life, and a soccer ball exploded before she managed to get us back onto Yosemite.

She wailed, "They're getting away!"

More automatic gunfire was tearing back at us. My vote would be to let them. What would we do if we caught up?

Another stick of dynamite was tossed out of the SUV. We drove around it easily.

The SUV angled left onto Figueroa.

"Ha! They're headed for the freeway! If they knew what I had under my hood, they wouldn't dare! Run for it, you slime-licking toads! Run for the freeway!"

Figueroa, I remembered, went underneath the freeway but had no onramp. The nearest onramp was on Colorado Boulevard off to the right.

The SUV turned right onto Colorado. They sped down the street towards the onramp, which I remembered was on the left. They'd have to cut across oncoming traffic to get to it. And we were now gaining.

They swerved to the right to get around a slow-moving Ford Econoline and couldn't get back across in time to make the turn onto the onramp. Oncoming traffic was too heavy anyway; they would have had to have stopped.

"Shoot!" commanded Whitney, but any shot I had was blocked as they entered into a lazy-S turn, first to the left, then the right.

By then, I was distracted Whitney's legs. She had one foot on the throttle and the other on the clutch, which meant there was plenty of room between her thighs for my imagination to slide in and do a libidinous happy dance. Ptolemy thought that the Sun was the center of the universe, but that was just because he'd never seen Whitney Slater's open thighs. Sweet mother of mercy! Any hope that I'd live a clean and virtuous life simply evaporated.

Adding to my lust was the vision of her legs doing their own dance, stomping on the clutch as she changed gears, braking, accelerating again. Those legs worked and worked and worked. I was going out of my mind.

"Stop staring at my legs and shoot!"

I looked up to find we were speeding across the Arroyo Seco Bridge. The Arroyo was a deep, deep gorge, and the bridge over it was a quarter-mile long with distinctive Beaux Arts arches, light standards and railings.

Machine gun fire was coming from both sides of the SUV. Our windshield disintegrated.

"Shoot!"

If for no other reason than to just shut her up, I shot my little pop gun. A tired on the SUV blew out. It wove crazily back and forth across the bridge, smashed through one of the beautiful railings and plunged down, down, down into the Arroyo Seco.

Whitney brought her pickup to a halt beside the gap. We got out to look down. Far down below us, the SUV was upside down and burning. No one could have survived that fall, never mind the flaming gasoline-fed inferno which followed.

Only then did I realize that police sirens were approaching from both ends of the bridge. My first impulse was to run; my second impulse was to kick my first impulse in the seat of the pants. We were on a bridge with cops coming from both ends. Where were we going to run to?

Police cars screeched to a halt. Cops were pouring out. "Hands up! Down on the ground!" they were shouting. "Hands up! Get down! Hands up! Get down!"

Whitney and I bellied down on the pavement. We were swarmed and roughly cuffed.

"What's going on?" one of them thought to ask.

A voice with an Austrian accent as thick as _Käsdönnala_ replied, "I think I can explain."

I turned to see a pair of snakeskin boots stepping off a Harley and slowly striding towards us. Twisting my head, I could see tight blue jeans, a tan leather jacket over a faded red T-shirt, and a square jaw that hadn't seen a razor in about a week.

"Holy Moses!" gasped one of the cops. "It's Jack Slater! Can I have your autograph?"


	5. Wolfe Burgers

Chapter 5: Wolfe Burgers

Jack Slater had caché with every police department in Southern California. (Of course, if you ever said the word "caché" in his presence, you'd be eating a knuckle sandwich.) So with assurances from Jack, the Pasadena police sprung us so fast that our handcuffs never had a chance to get warm.

Breakfast was still a priority. The good news was the Arroyo Seco Bridge ended in Old Town Pasadena, refurbished, renovated, and renewed into trendy bistros, craft shops, and theaters. The bad news was that Jack Slater wouldn't be caught dead in a frou-frou eatery. So Jack hefted his Harley into the bed of Whitey's pickup, commandeered the keys from her, made her sit in the middle, and drove us through Old Town, up Colorado, turned north on Lake and pulled into the parking lot of Wolfe Burgers. It served breakfasts hearty enough to feed a panzer division.

We found an empty table in the patio behind the restaurant.

Jack called a mechanic he knew who made house calls and had him bring out a replacement windshield, oil pump, and various other parts. The guy made the repairs while we ate.

"Daddy, I swear you should have seen him! Bullets were flying everywhere. My truck was getting turned into Swiss cheese; my oil pressure was dropping faster than the Dow Jones average; my windshield was gone, when BAMM, with his first shot, Ted blows one of their tires, and over the side they go! His first shot!"

"Ted? Who's Ted?"

I raised a finger. "I am. I'm Ted."

"So I repeat my question: Who's Ted?"

"He's one of my students, Daddy."

"Since when do you have students? What do you teach?"

"Since yesterday. The university hired me to teach martial arts? They needed someone in a hurry."

Jack suddenly turned on me. "You have a permit to carry a concealed firearm?"

"What? No, it's hers!"

He sneered. "Not that silly .22!"

"One shot, Daddy. He took out an SUV filled with professional assassins with one shot. Isn't he terrific?"

"No. He's a pencil-necked geek who shoots girly guns."

"He can whip me at martial arts," she announced proudly.

"What? No! -Then why isn't he the one teaching the class?"

"Maybe because he broke the last instructor's arm."

Jack's ice-blue eyes focused on me. "You broke a university instructor's arm?"

"Um, yes."

He laughed. "Well, at least you have one point in your favor!"

"So you don't mind if I date your daughter?"

Yikes! The ice-blue eyes were back! Now they were chilled with liquid nitrogen. He said very slowly, "If you so much as think about dating my daughter, you should get a new brain."

Whitney got up and stood beside me. "Daddy, we agreed. I can date anyone I want." She bent over and kissed me on the lips, a long, lingering, lovely kiss (with a quick taste of tongue).

When she stood back up, I was looking into the eyes of Jack Slater. "If you hurt my little girl, I'll arrange for you to have room and board at Forest Lawn. _Verstehen Sie_?"

"_Ja. Ich verstehe."_

"See, Daddy? He even speaks German. What could be better?"

Jack growled, "Death by slow torture." 

Once we finished eating and Jack paid the mechanic for the repairs to his daughter's pickup, Whitney said, "Dad, loan Ted one of your pistols, will you?"

"Why is he going to need a gun?"

I echoed, "Yeah, why am I going to need a gun?"

"Oh, he probably won't. It's for just-in-case."

Jack rumbled, "Well maybe I should tag along then, 'just-in-case'."

"What do you think I am? Twelve? I'm a big girl, and I can take care of myself, especially if both I and my date are carrying guns."

I repeated, "Why am I going to need a gun?"

Her father shook his head. "It sounds too dangerous. I'm coming too."

Whitney rolled her eyes. "Dad, you'd never go where we're going."

"What are you talking about? I've been in sewers, tombs, jungles, prison yards, slaughter houses, scorpion pits and several political conventions. I've been in places so foul, disgusting and dangerous that you can't even imagine!"

"Dad, we're going to a museum."

He froze and his face turned white. "So you want to shoot up the place to give it a little excitement?"

"Just give Ted the gun."

"I don't want a gun!"

Jack pulled a .38 out of an ankle holster and shoved it towards me. "Here, take the gun."

I looked at Whitney. "Why do I want a gun?"

"So you can live long enough to give me a good night kiss this evening." She turned and headed for her pickup.

I gulped, grabbed the gun, and hurried after her.


	6. Ambush in the Huntington Library

Chapter 6: Ambush in the Huntington Library

We drove into the spacious, tree-lined parking lots of the Huntington Museum, Gardens and Library. Whitney found a parking place and pulled in.

As I got out of the pickup, I asked, "Why are we here?"

She smiled. "Because it's a good place for a first date."

"And again, why are we bringing guns?"

She headed for the entrance. "Well, maybe it's not all that good."

We went up the long walkway to the entrance pavilion. Whitney went to the ticket booth and showed them a card that got us two free passes. We stopped to put our stickers on. She patted mine on to my chest, and then insisted that I do the same to her.

Once inside, we went down the steps, passed some flower gardens and turned right and strolled along the broad walkway that went between a grassy plaza on our left and the Huntington Library on our right. Beyond the grassy plaza, the land fell away and was filled with the towering trees of the Jungle Garden. Whitney with me in tow turned her back on it and went into the library.

The library visitors' room was to the left. (I'd once seen handwriting of Mark Twain and of David Thoreau there.) Today, Whitney continued straight to scholars' entrance of the reserved books section, flashed her card again, and told the guard, "This is Dr. Gifford. He'll be assisting me with my research today." We were given two more stickers. She patted mine onto my chest, and I patted her sticker on to her chest. (Let's hear it for gender equality.)

"So I'm a Ph.D. now? My mother will be so proud."

We headed up an ornate staircase to the second floor.

There is no smell in the world like the smell of old books. It's kind of a cross between infinite wisdom and ancient dust spores. The labyrinth of bookcases reached nearly up to the ceiling, with crisscrossing anti-earthquake supports. Whitney unerringly led the way through the maze to an area of filled with tables.

On the far side, was a grey-haired lady, immaculately dressed. She suit was far too expensive for her to be a college professor. She undoubtedly was a donor, a major donor. When she heard us approaching, she turned.

"Ah, Whitney dear. I'm so glad you're here today. I have something for you." She reached into a Macy's bag and came out with an Uzi.

I shoved Whitney aside, pulled by .38 and snapped off a shot. Then we were fleeing. Behind us, the Uzi chattered.

From all around, came the sound of running footsteps. They didn't sound like friendly footsteps either. I heard Whitney's .22 pop, and a man responded with a grunt of surprise and pain.

Two aisles later, Whitney stopped to try her cell phone. "Damn walls are too thick. I can't get a signal. And they have us cut off from the stairs. I'm opened to suggestions."

I spied a locked wooden panel on the wall and above it, a locked trapped door. "This way!" I ran over and shot the lock off the wood panel. It opened to reveal a recessed ladder. Up I went, and at the top, I shot the lock off the trap door. When I shoved it upwards, it wouldn't budge. So I slammed it up hard with my shoulder. It popped complete off and went sailing into the sunlight.

I hurled myself up onto the roof and yelled, "Come on!"

She followed me up and again checked her cell phone. "Yes!" She hit speed dial, listened, and then cringed. "Hello Daddy. I hope you get this message real soon. Remember this morning when you wanted to come along with Ted and me, but I said no? Well, you were right, and I was wrong. Ted and I are trapped on the roof of the Huntington Library. Lots of bad guys are trying to kill us. We'll try to stay alive till you get her. Hurry! Love ya."

She shoved her cell back into her purse and pulled out her wooden grenade. He tossed it down the open trap door, which caused quite a commotion down there.

"Come on, Ted!"

We ran to the west edge roof and looked down. We looked way, way too far down.

"If we try and jump this," I said mournfully, "we'll break our ankles for sure."

So she pushed me.


	7. Shootout in the Sculpture Garden

Chapter 7: Shoot Out in the Sculpture Garden

To be fair to Whitney, I didn't fall all that far. As I toppled headfirst, she grabbed my ankle. I looked back up to see her dangling, with her left hand holding my pants cuff and the right hand holding on to the edge of the roof. What incredible strength she must have to hold the weight of two people with just one hand. She grunted, "It's not all that far to fall from here, is it?"

I mumbled incoherently.

She began swinging me back and forth like a pendulum, and at the top of one swing, she let go of me, giving me a little lift as she did so. I flipped on the way down, landed with both feet on the ground, and tripped over onto my ass.

"Catch me!" she said.

I jumped up, ran to get underneath her, and opened my arms. (Yep, definitely gold panties.) She let go and fell into my arms with all the grace and skill of a plummeting elephant. I went over onto my ass again.  
>"Did I hurt you?" she asked.<p>

I could have said something like: _You mean besides breaking every bone in my body?_ But I refrained. "No," I croaked. "I'm fine."

She took my hand and jerked me up. We ran passed the "Keep on the Pathways" sign and dove into heavy foliage. Pressing through scratching and ripping branches and thorns, we soon emerged into the Sculpture Garden. A long line of ancient marble statues stretched from north-to-south. Then there was a large grassy area with a fountain to our right and the museum to our left, a matching line of ancient statues on the other side, and finally more foliage. Whitney pointed with her .22. "That's our best defensive position." We burst out of the bushes, ran passed the statues, across the lawn, passed the next row of statues and hid behind them.

We turned around and waited to ambush our assailants.

After a few moments, Whitney asked, "So, are you having fun?"

"What?"

"It's our first date. Are you having fun?"

I shook my head. "No! This is our second shoot out, and it's not even lunchtime yet!"

She nodded. "After this, no more gunfire for the rest of the day. I promise."

"Does this kind of thing happen to you often?"

She waggled her hand. "_Comme ci, comme ça._"

According to my calculations, the bad guys could come after us from one of two directions: They could either follow us through the shrubbery, which meant they'd make a lot of noise and we'd hear them coming. Or they could come into the Sculpture Garden from the usual direction, through its wide-open south end near the museum, which meant they'd have no cover and would be sitting ducks.

One thing I hadn't counted on was an arm being thrown around my throat from behind. The guy pulled back hard, trying to strangle me, which threw my .38 who-knows-where. I ran up the statue I'd been hiding behind, continuing into a back flip, landed behind him, and shoved him face-first into the hard marble. A fist crashed into my right cheek from behind, which was easy to roll with. I lashed back with my foot and felt a satisfying crunch. A third man was rushing straight at me. I dropped to one knee and punched him hard in the solar plexus, and he crumpled as if his bones had turned to Jell-O.

I glanced around for Whitney. Two of her attacks were staggering slowly back up to their feet as she drove her elbow into the nose of a third. Then I saw the elegantly dressed gray-haired lady raise her Uzi and point it at Whitney.

Before I could shout a warning, there was an avenging roar. Jack Slater's Harley jumped the wall at the north end of the Sculpture Garden. He nearly landed on the fountain. Sliding around it, he spotted Whitney and me being swarmed by bad guys, raised that big .45 of his, and opened fire.

The first bullet snatched away the life of the elegantly dressed lady as if it has been nothing more than a take-a-number tag in a Deli.

The bad guys heard the shot, stopped what they were doing and, leaped for their Uzis. I spotted my .38 laying nearby and jumped for it. Whitney had found her .22 and came up shooting.

Bullets flew like angry bees, bad guys dropped like autumn leaves. Those who got to their weapons first, died first.

By the time Jack had ridden passed us, there was nothing left but a bunch of dead guys. He turned his bike around and rode back to us. He eyed his daughter. "Apparently, museums are a lot more exciting than I give them credit for."

"See, Daddy? Aren't you glad you loaned Ted your gun?"

"What I see is a daughter who isn't telling her daddy everything. Why is everyone in the San Gabriel Valley trying to kill you?"

She shook her head. "It's not everyone; it's just a handful really. And most, if not all of them, are now dead."

His eyes were unmoved. "_Sprechen zu mir._ What have you been sticking your nose into?"

Whitney cringed. "Promise you won't get angry?"

"_Sprechen zu mir._"

She took a deep breath. "The cursed treasure of Cahuenga Pass?"

"WHAT?"


	8. The Cursed Treasure of Cahuenga Pass

Chapter 8: The Cursed Treasure of Cahuenga Pass

The three of us meandered through the Huntington's celebrated Rose Garden. Jack had used his clout with the San Marino police and with the Huntington's own security guards to calm things down over the shooting.

"So," I said to him. "What's this cursed treasure thing?"

He looked over to Whitney. "You explain it to him," he said, still visibly angry. "You tell the story so much better than I do."

Whitney began, "Back during the American Civil War, France placed upon the throne of Mexico, the Emperor Maximillian. Mexicans resisted this European attempt at re-colonization. President Benito Juarez retreated north to organize the resistance.

"Juarez sent four of his most trusted agents along with over $200,000 in gold and jewels to San Francisco to buy guns. But before the agents reached San Francisco, one of them died a sudden and unexplained death. The other three suspected French treachery. When they arrived in San Francisco, they found the city full of French spies, and so they retreated into the hills, divided the funds into six buckskin-wrapped packets, and buried them.

"But the three Mexican agents did not realize that they were being watched by a shepherd named Diego Moreno. When they left, Moreno dug up their treasure and headed south.

"When the Mexican agents returned and discovered the treasure stolen and each suspected the others. Two killed each other, and the third was arrested for their killings. Although he was later exonerated, he was soon after killed in a bar fight in Tombstone, Arizona.

Diego Moreno followed the traditional supply trail into Los Angeles, which wound through the Cahuenga Pass. He stopped at a small tavern called La Nopalera. That night, a dream warned Moreno that, if he entered Los Angeles with the stolen treasure, he would die. Unnerved by this premonition, Moreno buried the pouches under a large ash tree. He continued on into Los Angeles, where he fell gravely ill.

"His friend Jesus Martinez tended to Moreno. To repay Martinez's kindness, Moreno told Martinez of the buried treasure. He was said to have told him it was buried: 'On the side of the pass about halfway from the tavern to the summit on the hillside opposite the main road.' Moreno fell sicker, went into convulsions, and died.

"Martinez and his stepson Jose Correa buried Moreno and headed for the pass. At the moment Martinez discovered the ash tree, he suffered a seizure and dropped dead. Correa, seeing this, concluded the treasure must be cursed and fled.

"Years passed. Then in 1885, a Basque shepherd was grazing his flock in the hills of the pass. His dog became excited by something near a tree. The shepherd unearthed one of the six tattered parcels of jewels and coins. He decided to return home to Spain with his newfound wealth. As he approached his homeland, he slipped and fell overboard. The weight of the gold and jewels sewn into his clothing pulled him under and drowned him.

"Nearly ten years after that, Jose Correa, finally overcame the fright of his stepfather's precipitous death. He set out again to find the treasure. Correa made it as far as Boyle Avenue before he was confronted by his brother-in-law, with whom he was in a family dispute. An argument broke out, and the brother-in-law killed him.  
>"Since then, others have tried to find the treasure and failed. Most attempts centered in the Hollywood Bowl area. One attempted drilled through the Hollywood Bowl parking lot, dug down forty-two feet and moved 100 tons of earth before giving up.<p>

"But not since 1885, when the shepherd's dog dug up one of the pouches, has anyone found a centavo of the treasure. In today's money, it would total around $42,000,000. Assuming the Basque shepherd found 1/6 of it, $35,000,000 remains buried somewhere in the Cahuenga Pass."

Jack growled, "Let's count up the bodies: Juarez's four agents, Moreno, Martinez, the Basque shepherd, Correa, and one of the later treasure hunters who committed suicide when he failed to find the gold. Nine men dead. And that's not including today's body count. I don't want my daughter searching for a cursed treasure which has killed everyone who's come close to it."

Whitney retorted, "I can think of thirty-five million reasons why I should look for it."

"Greedy, greedy," sneered Jack. "What do you need that kind of money for?"

"Do you even know what's happening with tuition these days?"

"Hey, don't blame me for that. Blame the Governor."


	9. Treasure Map

Chapter 9: Treasure Map

We had only three chances of getting Jack Slater into the Rose Garden Tea Room: slim, fat and none. So we went around to the other side of the building where a café overlooked the Shakespeare Garden. As long as we dug him up some chili or a sandwich and didn't let Jack see how much it cost, we'd be okay. It wasn't quite noon yet, and so we sat at a table waiting for the café to open.

It was there that the police inspector found us.

"How's it going?" asked Jack, feeling more comfortable now that murder and mayhem were back on the menu.

The inspector made a face. "I'm going to end up dealing with those pain-in-the-butt Hollywood police," he grumbled. "Turns out the lady who was the head of these thugs just bought a house over by the Hollywood Bowl. So, we'll be executing a search warrant there."

Whitney's ears pricked up. "Hollywood Bowl?"

"You're the history expert right? The one these guys were after?"

"Yeah," she said. "Why?"

"We found this in her purse, and maybe you can use your knowledge of history to clue us in." He spread the photocopy of an old map on the table in front of us. It looked like it dated from the mid-19th Century. It had an "X" drawn down in the Cahuenga Pass at a place marked "La Nopalera," another "X" drawn at the top of a nearby summit, a line drawn between the two, and a halfway point on the line also marked.

"Let me guess," said Whitney. "Her new house is located right at the halfway mark, right?"

"I don't know. Could be."

"Bet on it. We're going too."

"Hey lady, this is an official police investigation."

"So you think Jack Slater is not an official police officer? You think I'm not an official reserve officer, and he's not our official ride-along? But don't worry inspector, we won't get in the way of your little investigation."

He glared at her. "See that you don't." 

Jack put his Harley back into the bed of Whitney's pickup and drove us over towards the Hollywood Freeway.

"From Ph.D. to police ride-along," I mourned. "How the mighty have fallen."

Jack grumbled, "Whitney, you shouldn't have told him you're a reserve officer. You can get into a lot of trouble impersonating an officer of the law."

"But I didn't," she replied. "I asked him if he thought I wasn't a reserve officer. There's a difference."

"I doubt that a judge and jury would agree with you."

The woman's newly purchased multi-million-dollar house was in a cul-de-sac at the end of Los Tilos Road. The property did indeed overlook the Hollywood Bowl.

We got out and waited for the police to arrive with their warrant. Whitney hung back in the pickup for a few moments, rummaging behind the seat to come up with a cane. She got out and started limping around with it.

Jack eyed her suspiciously. "What now?"

"Oh Daddy, you remember when I sat on that rattlesnake, and Ted here had to suck out the poison to save my life." She patted her delectable backside.

He looked suitably embarrassed while she continued to pace back and forth across the front lawn (never covering the same piece of ground twice, I noticed).

I crept up next to her and softly asked, "What's so important about the map?"

"It's the only one I've ever seen," she replied, "that shows the location of La Nopalera, the tavern where Moreno had his prophetic dream. The treasure should be located about halfway between the tavern at the summit, or just about in here someplace. The ash tree will be long dead, of course, but we're in the right general area."

"And your cane is a metal detector, right?"

"Bright boy. The handle vibrates when its foot passes over anything metal. So far everything's been linear: water mains, sewer lines, and electric. Once the police get here with their warrant, I can check out the backyard too."

I looked around dubiously. There were lots of houses here in the cul de sac, and any one of them could be the burial site. There was even one wedged-shaped piece of property which was so steep, no house could be built on it. It most probably belonged to the Hollywood Bowl. However, it was not too steep to have footpaths switchbacking back and forth from locals making their way down to the Bowl.

Without the ash tree, the area which had to be searched was very large and the terrain was mostly inaccessible. And the treasure was very, very small.

This new map had made the potential haystack a lot smaller, but we were still looking for a much-too-small needle in a much-too-large haystack.


	10. The House on Los Tilos Road

Chapter 10: The House on Los Tilos Road

It smelled as if someone had set fire a pile of old tires and cow manure. I turned to find Jack lighting one of his infamous cheap cigars.

He met my gaze. "What?" Then he realized the problem. "Oh. Mind if I smoke?" he asked in a tone suggesting there'd better be no problem.

"I have a problem," a man's voice snapped, "a big problem. What are you people don't on my property?"

I turned to see a young man standing on the front porch. His double-barrel shotgun was staring directly at us.

Jack sneered, "I'm standing on the sidewalk."

Whitney scurried off the lawn and onto the sidewalk too.

It took me about a half-a-heartbeat to follow Whitney's wise example.

"Why are you here?"

Looking down the business end of a double-barrel shotgun didn't faze Jack. "We're waiting."

"Waiting? Waiting? Waiting for what?"

Jack pointed with his cigar. "Them."

Down the street came a convoy of black-and-white units.

The young man's eyes opened wide. "You're Jack Slater!"

"Thanks. I already know that."

The shotgun flew to the young man's shoulder. He pulled the trigger, and the gun roared.

Jack grunted in pain as his leg blossomed red.

I was already jumping as far away from the path of the pellets as humanly possible.

The young man turned and fled around the corner of the house.

Whitney streaked after him like a beagle after a fox.

"Whitney!" I cried. I scrambled to my feet and chased after her. What about a DOUBLE-barreled shotgun did she not understand?

I charged through the gate and into the backyard. The young man had been cornered by Whitney and was battling her cane with his shotgun as if they were a pair of gung-fu fighting staffs. I never broke stride but rather lowered my head and charged.

As he caught her cane with his shotgun and flicked it out of her hands and up over the fence, I crashed into him. We both went sprawling. My martial arts training kicked in, and I was back on my feet in a flash.

Still sprawled on the ground, he raised the barrel of his shotgun up. Its deadly meatuses stared at my belly.

Then Whitney came spinning in from behind him. Her foot kicked away the shotgun, which impotently discharged into the sky, and her elbow crashed down onto his skull as she landed on top of him.

I leaped into the fray as well, holding him down as he kept struggling.

LAPD were swarming in through the gate to help us. They piled on like this were a goal-line stand in the last seconds of the Super Bowl. "You have the right to remain silent," grunted one of them as we struggled. "If you give up this right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . ."

As had happened so many times in the past, Jack Slater was strapped onto a gurney, hoisted into the back of an ambulance, and driven off to the nearest hospital. The young man was cuffed, placed into the back of a black-and-white driven off to the nearest police station. The police found no one else home and began their search of the house on Los Tilos Road.

Whitney and I went next door to the wedge-shaped vacant lot which began to property of the Hollywood Bowl. She looked at the steep slope that fell rapidly away. Somewhere down there in the tangled underbrush was her cane. "Darn," she groused, "I really need that cane."

"I'll get it for you," I offered gallantly. "Remember your snakebite. You're the walking wounded."

"Not since those cops saw me run down that guy. No, we'll go together."

Those switchbacks looked a lot steeper now that we were thinking of descending them. She started down, slipping and sliding as the ground repeated crumbled beneath her. What kind of people would willingly use trails like these just to go to the Hollywood Bowl? Alpine climbers? Capricorns?

I followed Whitney down, keeping off to one side so that, if I slipped, I wouldn't take her down the hill with me.

"You broke your promise to me," I complained.

"What promise?"

"That there'd be no more gunfire for the rest of the day."

"He wasn't shooting at you," she retorted. "He was shooting at my dad."

"—with a shotgun . . . as I was standing next to him!"

"Oh, grow some cojones." She slipped and slid further down the trail, but then stopped. "That wasn't fair. I'm sure you have a very nice set of cojones."

I shrugged. "Seeing is believing."

Just for a second, she tensed. But then she pretended she hadn't heard and continued downwards. "OH SHIT!" She was slipping badly.

Heroically, I grabbed her hand. But she was too off balance now, and she pulled me down the hill with her. When my feet hit the ground again, I gave a pretty good leap forward so that I could wrap myself around her into a kind of cocoon.

To my surprise, she did the same back to me. So we rolled down the hill together, trying to protect each other, while emitting yelps, grunts, moans and various profanities.

We stopped when we hit a tree. I was on top of her, with my thighs between hers and with our pelvises pressed together. If there was a God, He was one heck of a dirty, old man. I peeled myself off of Whitney and slowly got up, feeling for any broken bones.

She got up too. "Hey! My cane!" She limped over and stooped to pick it up. As soon as she touched it, she froze. "The handle's vibrating," she announced. Whitney looked around for something to dig with and found an old, abandoned mountain-climbing pinion. (Why am I not surprised?) She began to dig.

A few strokes later, she snorted. She set the pinion aside and cleared the dirt away with her hands. Then, from out of the earth, she wrestled a badly rotting buckskin pouch. As it shredded before my eyes, I could see the flash of jewels and the glitter of gold coins.

She returned to her digging again and again, eventually bringing up what was left of five ancient buckskin pouches.

$35,000,000 worth.


	11. Land of Dreams

Chapter 11: Land of Dreams

Whitney and I were driving north through the Caheunga Pass, just where the Hollywood Freeway crests and begins its descent down into the San Fernando Valley. In the space at the rear of the pickup's cab, we had our millions stashed.

"We have to turn the money in," I declared.

"What? Why?"

"We found it on city land. So it belongs to the city."

She signed. "You are just like my father. Just like him."

"Sorry."

"Oh, don't apologize. It's a compliment. How many men would be willing to give up tens of millions of dollars because it's 'the right thing to do'?"

"Yeah. Well, we have to do it," I repeated.

"Ted darling, how much do you know about California treasure trove law?"

"About what?"

"Treasure . . . trove . . . law."

I shook my head. "I don't know nothing about no treasure trove law."

"Well, it turns out that California law rewards those whose industry and hard work turns up valuables which have been lost, even if the treasure is located on someone else's property. This is because, without their hard work, the treasure would remain lost and of no use to anyone."

"So you're saying the treasure is legally ours?"

We drove passed the exit for Universal Studios, where dreams are metamorphosized into sparkling reality.

"There're a few provisos, of course. You can't be an employee of the landowner because employees owe a special duty of loyalty to their employers. You don't work for the city, do you?"

"No."

"You can't be a trespasser. But we weren't trespassing today. We were following well-worn pathways on public land, heading for a public venue."

"So the treasure is ours?"

"According to treasure trove law, yeah."

I was still uneasy. "We'll need to spend it before the curse kicks in."

"There's not going to be any curse." She took one hand off the wheel and fished the golden medallion from out of her cleavage. "See this lady here, her with her cactus crown and her red-snake accessories?"

I leaned over for a closer look . . . supposedly at the medallion. (Okay, I glanced at it too.) "Yeah?"

"Her name's Chantico. She's the Aztec goddess of treasure. She is very protective of hidden treasure. Very protective. Since this treasure comes originally from Mexico, who else would have cursed it except for Chantico? So for the last several months, I've been wearing her next to my heart. She and I have become vast friends. I know I could never have found the treasure today if she didn't want me to have it."

We made the transition from the Hollywood Freeway onto the Ventura Freeway.

"So we have both the treasure trove law and the Aztec goddess of treasure on our side?"

"Right. So Ted, what do you think?"

I thought for a long moment. She had it all figured out. If she were right in what she was saying (and I was sure she was), the $35,000,000 was ours! Could life get any better? I shouted, "I think this is the best first date ever!"

Whitney laughed.

We drove along for a while, laughing.

Then Whitney nervously cleared her throat. "All my life," she said, "I've been looking for a man who compared to my dad, who had his bravery, his machismo, his strength of character, and his honesty. In the last two days, I've come to realize that I've finally met him. In truth, I've wanted to pounce on you since the first moment I laid eyes on you back at the gym. And this morning, when we were in mortal danger during that car chase, but you still found time to check out my legs, my god, I've never felt so sexy in all my life! So what I plan to do now is to drag you home and take you to bed."

I don't know how far my mouth fell open.

She took my stunned silence as a sign of reluctance and shivered. "That is, I mean, uh, if you want to."

My mouth finally started working. "I think the moral of this story is that, just when you think life can't get any better . . . IT DOES!"

I may need to remind you that I do love ugly girls. I really do. But y'know beautiful girls-there's a lot to be said for them too!

THE END

+ + + AUTHOR'S NOTES + + +

In the original "Last Action Hero" movie, the characters moved between the real world and an action-movie world. This story didn't lend itself to that. So, I set this action story in the real world. Every place named in this story actually exists, with two small exceptions. I've never been a qualified scholar, so I've never been inside the Huntington Library. That setting is made up. Of the cul-de-sac at the end of Los Tilos Road, all I've seen are overhead photographs. It looks there might be a steep slope there, but I'm guessing.

The cursed treasure of Cahuanga Pass is an historical fact. As far as anyone knows, millions of dollars of gold and gems remain buried somewhere on the slopes near the Hollywood Bowl. The long string of deaths associated with the treasure is also an historical fact.

California's treasure trove law is much as I described it. There is one wrinkle which I glossed over. The treasure trove law is only applicable when the true owner of the treasure is unknown. Here, the true owner is the Republic of Mexico, and so if you find it, you cannot legally claim it at yours (as I understand the law). On the other hand, since everyone who comes near the cursed treasure dies a precipitous death, legal complications may be the least of your problems.

REVIEW this story, pleeeeeeease!


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